


Ozymandias

by orphan_account



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Delusions, General Angst and Sadness TM, Hospitalization, M/M, Medication, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: First visits don't have to be as bad as one expected.
Relationships: Michael Ginsberg/Stan Rizzo
Kudos: 10





	Ozymandias

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm at my annual mandatory re watch of this amazing TV show that will always be close to my heart, and honestly I'm a sucker for characters like Ginsberg. Nothing to be done about it. I'm hopelessly in love with this life story, send help. 
> 
> Also wanted to finally do something about the hole that's left in my heart after we never see him again, although Stan did visit, #it'scanon. I still have hope for my baby boy to thrive. Hope anyone reading this enjoys! :)

It took him six steady months to gather the stamina needed in order to get out of bed and into a cab that took him over the bridge that went out of Manhattan, past the Queens Zoo, past the Flushing Meadows and the Oakland Gardens, where he’d get off just a couple of blocks before the actual destination and walk wearily towards the tall block of cement called Creedmoor Psychiatric Center, all the way up in Belmont Park. Six months. He thought about all the times he’d thought he should’ve been somewhere else, instead of in his or Peggy’s apartment, getting sky high. Or taking the subway towards the right direction and then detouring to see that Chris Marker movie, again. Or staying late in the office like he almost never did, but the McCann dynamics seemed to be set in the very intense side of things and sometimes he appreciated the overtime. He’d stare off into space after coming up with a batshit tag line right of the top of his head, saying it out loud and having none of his dickhead co workers get the humor of it, just knowing who would actually have laughed, or retorted with something even more absurd and/or twisted. He’d overheard that loud and obnoxious lower east side accent a few nights before in a downtown bar. One that made his head turn sharply. A Bowery Boys kind of deal (“Whadda ya hear! Whadda ya say!”). They can’t all sound like Walter Cronkite, he thought as a dreadful bitterness settled in his chest.

It was like he’d left a whole life behind at SCDP, a ship that sank and left too many to drown at sea. He remembered. Gathering his belongings into a cardboard box along with the other copywriters. The color pencils Ginsberg always used, and some of his paint brushes. He’d actually taken those first thing back in the office after he rode in the ambulance with a friend in hysterics, begging him to believe the paranoid stuttering that came out of his mouth. And he took them before a secretary was ordered to clean out his desk, amongst some other things. The Mohawk scale plane they’d given him for the first account, the one he was hired for. His portable radio. His unfinished artwork. The typewriter with a half written copy report, that which technically belonged to the office but he couldn’t see anyone else using. It took him a while to admit just how much it’d hurt have someone go like that, disappear from his life. It made all his past breakdowns suddenly make sense, all the things he'd just attributed to being hopelessly incompetent at the art of social graces. And it just wasn’t something you could casually talk about, either. How "quirky" could a guy be before it wasn't funny anymore? He was no better that anyone else in the office, he thought most things where at par to his being a 'Yiddish-speaking Jew', and Brooklyn based and probably shit poor. He remembered when that nut case Randall Walsh visited the office and quoted Tecumseh, picturing an ad referent to Dr King's recent death. Stan was pissing himself with laughter midway through, yet Michael just stared at him in a mixture of weirded-out and very much in awe. He'd follow Randy to the elevator when both where instructed to walk him out, and could stop spitting questions at him. Stan knew he wasn't just doing it to further amuse himself, but rather to get a deeper understanding of something he sort of believed. Yet if someone had told him back then, that Michael Ginsberg would be institutionalized way before Randy ever was, he'd tell them to fuck right off. 

For weeks Peggy buried the subject under non-stop work. And the world went on spinning. He supposed his was spinning too, and with relative ease at that. But he found himself constantly thinking back to that moment shit hit the fan, how he’d tried to comfort Ginsberg on the elevator ride down, also speaking nonsensical words of hope and tranquility to a freshly graduated schizophrenic who’d just mutilated himself. He also thought about the dazed pleading he’d offered when an indifferent paramedic brought a needle out. “No, no no no. What the fuck is that? Stop it, stop it they need to know! Please Stan tell ‘em, please please I’m not crazy, oh god please. Stan.” And Stan did all he could do, hold his strapped down hand. Oh, he thought about it, every time a siren wailed at the distance — it had been a memorable day. He went back to the office completely plowed, at a lack of creativity in terms of what to do with himself after something like that. He thought of Ginsberg’s cloudy eyes being poked at by gloved hands and the unforgiving bolt of a flashlight. “Can you hear us? Sir, are you with us?”

“Fuck no, you just clogged his veins with A-grade narcotics.” Stan would have said, if he’d been able to say anything.

Only two weeks ago did he gather enough courage to make a phone call. He hung up immediately after hearing a receptionist speak half a sentence. Then he’d pick the phone up again and asked about visiting hours. Now he was walking at a hesitant pace while the building got bigger and bigger. He saw some orderlies having a smoke on the front steps, a few cars parked outside. God knew he’d been scared down to his core of what could be found inside a place like that. Insane asylums had always been marketed as something spooky, Stan didn’t know just how much he’d fallen prey to that idea. The constant leaking of unknown fluids, the flickering white lights, the barred windows and hostile nurses. He walked into the waiting room with hands balled into fists, he was instructed to wait for a couple of minutes during which he thought of making a run for it. He sat in a squeaky old leather booth and thought of all the horrors that could have been done to Michael. Michael Ginsberg, his friend who he’d abandoned for six months. Six fucking months.

Now was not the time to think of guilt, probably, but the image of him getting thrown into a dark, piss stained room with a straitjacket for days on end had him gritting his teeth. What if he wasn’t himself anymore? What if he’d become unrecognizable? Would he be able to recognize _him_? Deep in thought, an unprepared Stan Rizzo walked into what seemed to be the common room. Filled with the sound of a television set and a plethora of distinct voices running from one place to another. None of that death-filled stale and silent place he’d pictured, at least. Sure, it was no Hilton. _Some_ lights where flickering, the wallpaper did look run down, but he could live with it. At least it was luminous. 

“Stan?” An estranged voice called him from the left, and he felt his heart miss a beat. Michael was standing a few feet away with his shoulders slightly turned inwards. Clean shaven and hair significantly much shorter than the last he’d seen him, he wore a short sleeved olive shirt and washed down blue jeans, socks with no shoes on. If Stan didn’t know any better, he’d think it was an actual twenty one year old kid. Never having seen him dressed so casual, his first impression was that Michael was actually healthier. At least he it would have been, if it weren’t for his off-putting paleness and the pronounced dark circles that surrounded his eyes. After letting go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, Stan let himself smile at him, and gave the first few steps forward. It wasn’t until they were standing a lot closer that he noticed Michael held a plastic cup filled to the brim with vanilla ice-cream and a plastic spoon stabbed into it. A moment passed. 

“Hey” he weakly offered, unsure of what was next. “How are you doing?” He continued, probably unaware that his smile hadn’t flattered, but maintained itself strained. He couldn’t get over how starstruck Ginsberg seemed, as if he’d seen a ghost, or hallucinated one and was awfully aware that it wasn’t real.

“Uh, you know…” Ginsberg started, slightly nodding his head with his eyes darting around the room momentarily. “Good.”, he stated, it sounded like the adjetive ‘good’ had been the last in his list of options for describing his current state of being, but the first to come out. His voice also sounded diminished somehow, not the usual elevated volume of a person who lacked a serious amount of self awareness. So that seemed to have been taken care of, Stan thought bitterly. As Michael stretched out his free hand, tentatively directing Stan into a table by the side of a spacious window —which yes, was actually barred—, Stan couldn’t help noticing the slight tremble that dominated his stance.

“You wanna sit down?” He asked.

“Yes please” Stan replied as casually as possible. Too busy taking in his new overall appearance, the shaky part of Ginsberg had escaped him until now. They sat almost next to each other on a round table, it was baby blue. Now that he thought of it, it was probably a good sign that the main dayroom was also one dedicated to receiving visitors. It spoke to a much more relaxed atmosphere than what he was expecting to see.

“So.” Michael chimed in, still not making any eye contact, “How’ve you been?” It looked as if he were looking for someone else, someone that might appear right behind Stan, or somewhere else. Anywhere. Making a surprise entrance, unannounced and dangerous. “Had I known you where coming I would’ve gotten some shoes to wear” they all lived off the donations, of course, which in turn meant no one had claim to a permanent set of clothes. Not even shoes. A real communist dynamic. A lot of people here shared the same shoe size, so that was also sometimes problematic. Of course, when they put you in a hospital gown, you hadn’t a single thing in this damn world to worry about. At first Michael found it humiliating, that and the straps and his being constantly medicated all got to be a bit much at times. He felt like a rag doll, being manhandled around and worst of all, letting it happen. He found out pretty early on that aggressiveness didn’t do much for a patients quality of life.

* * *

His first round of shock therapy significantly alleviated the attitude problem, that's how a piece of shit orderly had put it back then. He was in a vegetable state for about a week, his mind hijacked by a renewed sense of fear and confusion. It was worse than he could ever imagine. He would have killed himself to get away from that horrible machine, every time it was announced to him it was happening again, he felt sick beyond comprehension. The effects of that so called treatment got him into a new dichotomy; he wanted to plan his exit, yet never found the peace of mind to come up with a bullet proof plan. He was too scared to keep on living, yet too anxious to successfully do anything about it. Not too differently to the way he felt back home, when the super computer was installed. He wanted to do something about it, something practical. But found himself too jittery, too alarmed looking for signs of contamination within his own mind to actually come through. And when he did end up doing something, it was more amongst the lines of assaulting his co worker at her apartment, than an actual solution. Maybe he did deserve what was happening to him. But as time went by and the skies began to clear, he could speak in full sentences well enough to plead to his doctor not to give him the shocks again. He concentrated all his sanity and remaining energy on trying to modulate his voice and not come off as too desperate. He supposed he wasn't as desperate and terrified as he'd once been, but he really couldn't go through that ordeal again, even though, yes, the prospect of it was a lot less scary now that it had been at first. Maybe that was progress. The first time (he remembered like one does a piece of a foggy dream), had been so bad, and his whole body so immerse in buzzing panic, it took four people to hold him down, to shove that cotton gag into his mouth. It took more than two tries to inject him also, his arm so tense he almost broke the needle, except it was the needle that burst his veins. A bruise so nasty he couldn't look at it. At least the sedatives kicked in in a matter of seconds, and soon the room went silent, with only the sound of things being wheeled around and his muffled whimpers filling the air.

For a couple of days after that, he found himself unable to speak more clearly than a disorganized mumble, maybe because of fatigue, but he'd figure his brain was actually broken beyond repair. He felt dissociated memories come back to him in flashes, like he supposed it would to an old man with dementia. It was like watching a badly directed movie of another person’s memoirs. An infinitely tall office building, a man with a green shirt and a thick beard. Connect-the-dots. Soft prayers chanted by the kitchen sink of a badly lit apartment. A red headed girl pretending to be a cat on a conference table. Walking aimlessly through a hostile city at night.

Boy did he have a thing for touring in circles around the same five or so blocks, just looking, trying to loose sight of himself at least for a moment. Perhaps in the hope of running into Robert Oppenheimer’s ghost, seek some guidance from him, maybe even get an autograph. He might’ve lied about not having any hobbies, after all. He thought back to endless hours in a mostly emptied out office, Friday evening. He went out to the break room for more coffee with portable radio under his arm, the low hum of its vibration warming his rib cage. His only companion a masculine voice talking of jazz, sometimes he had something to say to Michael, sometimes he was left ignored. But Ginsberg always talked back. _Ginsberg_. His office persona. The one that figured talking to himself counted as a sort of quirk, in lack of a better explanation. His father ignored it most times, as others he shushed him to get a better listen of the news. Either way he wasn't nearly as loud at home as he was in the office, he supposed it was part of the nerves being constantly set off. He acted around Don like he would never dare around say, Beverly Farber. A sigh took over him just by thinking back to her, the origin of that emotion unknown. 

All in all, he'd gotten ECT a total of three times, and his main doctor had considered their last conversation to be proof enough of an 'evolved emotional state'. It seemed as though the worse part of the storm had already passed, and he didn't remember much of it now. Morris had come by, cried silently by his side while Michael could do little more than lay there, too sleepy to say anything. Too unsure of what he'd say in any case.

* * *

“Well, I mean” Stan began, not asking about the shoes issue, or why no one had told him he was visiting. Could anyone just come in to see him without him having a say in it? He didn’t really how to answer the last question though, not necessarily because he didn’t know how he was doing. It was more of a contextual dilemma. He didn’t know what the answer ought to be when talking to _him_. “I’ve been good, too. There’s been a lot of work and, uh, its been a pain in the ass but mostly its interesting. Keeps me entertained enough.” He smiled. He promised himself work wouldn’t, under any circumstance, come up in conversation. But they were co workers before they where ever friends, right? Their time at SC&P had been their time in general. He watched as Ginsberg took a hold of his spoon and proceeded to shovel it into his mouth, almost mechanically, occasionally looking up (not really at Stan, but around him) to make the point of him actually listening.

“So what’s with dessert?” Stan gestured at it with a nonchalant lift of his chin.

“Oh, you know” Ginsberg spoke while still swallowing some of it down, “consolation prize.” Some things where too embarrassing to admit. That they’d given him this treat as a congratulatory event for not freaking out at the television’s static. Better yet, for sitting through half an episode of _Shazzan_ without panicking or crying or cursing at the TV set for hours on end. Or all three combined. Four whole scoops of vanilla ice cream for watching TV like a regular person would. It was pathetic, and it made him actually feel good about himself, like he hadn’t in a very long time. He thought back to how excited he’d been about his Sno Ball ad when it got the praise, how exhilarated and proud of himself that he'd beat Don at his own game. The fall from that high was pretty long, and it was probably stupid how he'd let it be so important. Almost as if afraid someone was also going to suddenly confiscate the newly earned reward, snatch the rug of momentary contentment from under his feet, he had at it as fast as he could. They’d have to make him puke it up to undo it, but by then it would be worth it.

* * *

He remembered a time, one of Morris' visits, one in which he'd limited himself to listen as his father read through that Bysshe Shelley poem, a small compilation book Michael owned and he probably picked up from his nightstand. He couldn't remember the name, but it occurred to him he had quoted it before, at work, when his 'hit me in the face with a sno ball' idea shined through everything else, "Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair" he said, to the brim with smugness. 

" _You should read the rest of that poem, you boob_." Stan answered. And then he had, it went something like, 'Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal -- 

" _... Wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away._ " Morris concluded, probably not a fan of reading such daunting sonnets to his institutionalized son, but he knew him well enough to know rhymes always helped him ease up a little bit. 

* * *

He managed another spoonful before he stuck it back into the remaining chunks and this time, as if struck with a sudden realization, turned his whole chair towards Stan.

“Hey, actually, its really good that you’re here cause they don’t really let us listen to the news in regards to, you know, warfare and the lot. Not even newspapers, it's hell.” A better look at him wasn’t much relief, the constant trembling of his extremities was pretty bad. He had his left hand balled up in a fist by his thigh, in a weak attempt to hide it. He was going to answer to that, but opted instead for the most pressing matter.

“Are you cold or something? I can give you my jacket”

“What, why?” He looked up, those irremediably clueless eyes.

“You're kinda shaky, aren’t you?” Stan tried his best to not frown too hard, but his face involuntarily contorted into real worry without him having a say in it.

“I’m fine,” he began to smile, but dropped the attempt half way though “you should’ve seen me two weeks ago, its when they first got me on this… I don’t recall the name, something long and pretty forgettable to be honest. Its an antipsychotic. That I _do_ know” For a moment he looked more natural, just like Stan froze him in his memory. Talkative, unconcerned yet still worried somehow. _You should have seen me two weeks ago._ Stan straightened in his chair, even more if that was possible.

“Yeah, about that… I’m really sorry I didn’t come visit before, things have been kinda crazy back there, I don’t want you to think I didn’t think of you.” He said. Michael seemed to chew on that idea, his gaze dropped to his lap.

“Im not gonna say I didn’t notice, but time goes by differently in here. Faster. I don’t know, its weird.” A pause. An nurse was intently looking their way. “You’re here now.” He offered.

Stan’s shoulders relaxed, he hands notice how high and tense they where, that was probably just as off-putting to Ginsberg as his own complexion was to him. Although it made sense, it probably wouldn't be news to anyone that one didn't get much sleep at hospitals - of any kind. 

“Yes,” he lingered at the letter _s_ , “I am.” Then he took another breath, lingering on his options for what to say next. Absentmindedly tugging at his beard, which wasn't as long now, he spoke again.

“So, what else they got you on?" and tentatively added "Anything you could deal to a suburban housewife?” Humor hadn’t really been established as something he could dive into right away, but an incommensurable amount of relief washed over Stans body at Ginsberg’s almost immediate reaction. His smile was just as genuine as he remembered it always being, excited, welcoming and kooky enough. He let out a clipped laugh, which none the less sounded grand. It was music to his ears, and so much more that what he was expecting to get out of the interaction.

“I don’t know, is lithium in these days?” The conversation took a turn towards the light, towards everything Stan could have hoped for and more. Michael Ginsberg wasn’t dead underneath a guise of sedatives. Sure, he was probably overmedicated, this was probably a good day he’d caught him on. But he went on talking and asking about the outside world, telling him about life inside the funny farm. Of course he'd find an irreverent way to make a joke of it, calling it the 'funny farm'. His father apparently didn't visit that often, limited by old age and not owning a car, relying heavily on kindly neighbors or fellow synagogue attendants. It wasn't hard, for Morris was a well liked man, friendly, funny (this Ginsberg admitted to, with a slight pull of guilt for how annoying he found him to be before) and caring for his community. Still, it didn't take away from the fact that it was a below par area they lived in, to put it lightly. So people offered up their gas when they had some.

Suddenly, like Ginsberg did, the conversation circled back to their time apart. After a mere second of pause in an unrelated topic, he put threw the plastic spoon into a now empty ice cream cup and used his free hand to shift is weight, manouvering to do nothing practical other than sit back down. "I was just so scared I'd made you hate me. You know, after the whole parade I threw back there." 

Stan couldn't say he didn't see it coming, or that he hadn't sort of practiced for this particular answer. "Nah, man," he threw in that exasperated shrug and offered his most sympathetic body language, hands punctuating his words "I- I'm sorry I couldn't do anything for you, or at least be more comforting. Nothing like that had ever happened to me and it was honestly a wake up call - to a lot of things but mainly to how shitty we can be as people. As humans. You really gave me a lot to think about, and I was startled, sure. I didn't see it coming, which was part of the problem to begin with. But all that time I was just worried about you. You know I appreciate you, we had great times, sure, but that wasn't just that." He heard himself lose his train of thought and tried to regroup, practicing was a lot different when the person staring back was his own reflection instead of the real deal. He sighed, "I guess what I'm trying to say is, what happened to you, probably happens to a shit ton of people. Especially if they're in a bad place and honestly, I'm surprised Don himself didn't end up here long ago, with all the drinking that guy does I was sure he was, at the very least, making up for a bad case of neurosis."

"Really?" Michael seemed as a child who couldn't believe the good news he was getting, it was heart warming and hear wrenching all at the same time. 

"I had my money on him." Stan assured. And Michael smiled, really smiled, he could catch a glimpse of his teeth showing even though he was looking at the ground. And honestly, what a gift of a moment. To know the people you cared about where still fully present, or capable of it in small flashes at least. It probably meant a lot for someone who struggled to be happy. Stan took great pride in being the cause for that, as insignificant as it probably looked to the shallow viewer. 

Eventually, he also asked about the whole ECT affair, once he felt warmed up enough. 

"It's like slapping the remote control so hard it suddenly works again." Michael answered, again swimming in that gray area between small-talk eccentricity banter, and dead seriousness, the one he dominated. 

Stan huffed a smirk, not satisfied with the answer, but willing to give him that. It didn't alleviate the resentment he felt towards that kind of thing. He couldn't, even though Michael's state suggested otherwise, get over the crippling fear he had about what kinds of things would happen to him inside. This wasn't alleviated by his co-workers and their ignorant cruelty about the subject, whenever the topic of "that crazy guy from SCDP" came up, they'd go to him, filled to the brim with morbid curiosity. _They're gonna fry his brain on a steel pan, first chance they get,_ was all Stan could seem to tell himself. Hospitals like these where well known to be the type of place you don't just walk out of after you've been brought in. He was truly amazed to see him talk about it like something that had actually worked. Amazed and grateful. Still, he kept looking back and forth from Ginsberg's constant tapping on the table's surface with his twitching left hand. His gaze was a lot more focused than before, but still somewhat astray. Ginsberg caught him paying attention to that aspect of himself, and ever so slightly recoiled. He took both hands off the table and balled them into fists on top of his lap, decided that they'd make incredible progress and not wanting to show signs of his sickness, even though the context of their meeting rendered that intention useless. Stan caught on to this gesture, and instant regret showed on his face. 

"I'm sorry, it's just new." He said

All in all, he thought he was doing a good job at acting hinged. It'd been very long indeed since he last felt the need to socialize in a casual context, or even worse, with someone whom he actually feared being hated by. Stan had pretty much been the closest he'd ever gotten to being able to say he had friends, or at the very least _a_ friend. Being manic (as the doctors called him) had granted him a lot of freedom in the past, freedom he didn't enjoy or could even really say he was aware of. Freedom of the only type there is, desperately lonely.

* * *

Stan had caught on to him type of humor pretty early on. One could even say he encouraged Michael's erratic behavior with his laugh, and Michael himself took a liking to being appreciated in that manner. Their shared space, inside jokes, sideways looks and silence. Their complicity. Their akin political views. Stan wouldn't say it out loud, but he very much envied Ginsberg's conviction, his boldness in calling people fascists. His daring nature. This very much made them friends. And Michael didn't want to ruin it, _again,_ by acting too ill. Even though he supposed that ship had sailed long ago, even when he'd already sort of accepted that Stan definitely found him disgusting, disturbed. He imagined Peggy telling him all about the night before, the things that he said, the things he did. He couldn't bare it. He couldn't bare the idea of not being able to form any meaningful relationship with another human being, ever, for constantly falling prey to some type of sexual deviance. He knew he was disgusting. When the paranoia died down, that was all which remained, an aftertaste of that impossibly humiliating ordeal, how he went out. Don was probably the most pleased. Peggy most likely relieved. And Stan, well, too unsettled by the little show he put on to ever want to even think of him again. 

He was wheeled in a complete mess, a man in pieces. Still strapped down, and significantly sedated, two nurses graced him with the privilege of eavesdropping on their ongoing conversation. It was a sort of ER, at first. A lot of beds crammed into one space, there where hysteric people all around. Crying, screaming, trowing dangerous looking objects, people in white coats going from one end of the room to another. There was a curtain dividing his and another man's bed, it was light green. The man was a veteran, a fresh acquisition to the asylum's probably vast collection of ex-combatants. The two nurses who spoke lightly next to him ignored the man's yells, as well as they ignored Michael's own sobbing. He couldn't for the life of him just fall unconscious already, like there was something still pendant. Another small pinch of misery to be felt.

One of the women expertly unbuttoned his shirt with gloved fingers. He wanted to object but couldn't find his voice or mouth. They were talking about someone else's mishap at a bowling alley last weekend, laughing lightly, but nearly cackling with heaps of volume thrown into his ears. The distortion didn't help what they where doing, ripping his improvised bandage of. She grabbed a ball of cotton and dipped a brown bottle of disinfectant on it, al in one swift, practiced motion. He was freezing, except the room's temperature was nothing below mild. The bowling talk continued as she cleaned the wound. It stung like nothing he'd ever felt. And not in the good way that it had when he walked into the office that morning. No, this felt very wrong, desacralized, how could he feel this way about something that, just hours ago, was so, undoubtedly _right_? The world turned to excrement and spoon fed to him by force. A new set of tears arrived clog his eyes. Their laughter growing louder and louder, their disdain for him was deafening. She held that cotton to his chest for far too long and far too hard, he couldn't do anything about it. 

* * *

Michael shook his head "I think they call that a side effect" he managed, a new round of relief filled the air between them. Sarcasm was always an option. 

"The world's still pretty much the way you left it, a shithole." Stan later said, in response to current affairs. 

"That's a relief" Michael answered with all sincerity. 

"I can't wait for you to be back in it, though." Michael could hear Stan's smile without it necessarily showing on his face, rather his eyes spoke of complete honesty. They where friends, after all. And it probably wasn't going to be soon, but it sure as hell helped to know he'd have someone else out there when he got out, in the great outdoors, with their arms wide open to his unnerving wit. 

* * *

"Ozymandias, the King of Kings. Ha" Morris huffed, eyeing the title and going over the old book with his palm, a nervous gesture. He huffed, never one to get used to grim literature. 

"Well..." Michael's voice was weak, of course, barely above a whisper. But when he did find his words, they came out in the language of clairvoyance itself. Like it was something he'd been waiting to say his whole life, ever in spiteful response to a perfectly groomed world, an order in which everything seemed to conspire for challenging his existence, for diminishing his spirit. The world in which a kid like him could survive against all odds, and even then, barely.

"At least he got his time in the sun." 


End file.
